#they're trying

He knew this was a vast improvement, but it was also strange. There was a heavy tension between the pair sometimes, with snappish remarks or, opposingly, careful and quiet words as if dealing with someone about to break. Other times it was seemingly normal, as if they were friends again trying to figure out how to fix a problem. It reminded him a bit of when they’d taken down House Ishita recently. Perhaps the fact that they were improving their interactions once more implied things would finally get better.

He didn’t know how to feel about that either, and it frustrated him. He was holding on to bitterness and resentment, and he knew it. They’d worked well together against Ishita, but Zelda’s manipulation against him and Hemisi, and her subsequent choice to hide her pregnancy, still hurt. But he understood why, at least for the second issue. Nevertheless, it didn’t take much to start grating on his nerves, and it looked to be similar with her. So Link stepped away to be with his daughter, to be outside, to be somewhere quiet where he wasn’t being watched by everyone, and he tried to do better.

Honestly, he didn’t know how Zelda handled the constant scrutiny. He did feel sorry for her. But she had grown up with this environment, so surely she was used to it, right?

Sighing, he leaned his head against his daughter’s, listening to the birds fly overhead. Glancing at the nearest sundial, he knew it was time to head back inside. His chest didn’t hurt anymore, so he would take this as a victory. Nodding towards one of the nannies, he walked inside with her following, placing Sonia in the nursery and kissing her.

As he sought out the queen, Link found her in the shared study of the royal quarters, head on the table.

He wasn’t sure if he should be amused or worried. “What are you doing?”

Zelda’s head shot up, startled and slightly annoyed. “I’m working on a decree.”

“Working very hard,” Link observed, biting back a laugh as it became apparent that she wasn’t unwell.

“I’ve been staring at it all afternoon,” Zelda snapped. “I needed a break.”

“Relax,” Link appeased, knowing she could get defensive easily. “Can I help?”

Zelda’s dark, frustrated expression immediately eased. “Please. I can’t read this anymore.”

Just as Link walked over to her, someone entered the study. “Your Majesty, the council meeting is about to begin.”

Link glanced at Zelda. “Council meeting? I handled that this morning.”

“You did,” Zelda affirmed. “This is a different one.”

“What’s this one about?” he asked, baffled.

“This morning was the usual meeting, pertaining to the daily affairs,” Zelda explained. “I had a special committee put together to handle the issue of transportation we were having. The one you talked about this morning.”

Link squinted at nothing, trying to remember what he’d even told her this morning. Those council meetings had so much information in them, it was hard to keep track of everything. But he vaguely recalled telling her that one of the common trade routes in Hyrule was blocked due to hazardous weather destroying the road, which was slowing trade between different locations, including Castle Town and the castle itself.

He stared at her. “You put a committee together for that? What could they have possibly figured out in a day’s time?”

“Well, I have to brief them first,” Zelda said as if it were obvious.

“Of course,” Link agreed dully, as if it were obvious.

Good grief. Everything about running a kingdom was incredibly tedious. He knew Zelda couldn’t handle it all—that was why he was helping—but it seemed like throwing too many people into a problem only bogged the issue down. Lady Impa would handle many matters herself and only appoint one or two others to assist her.

Then again, the population and size difference between Kakariko and the entire kingdom of Hyrule was quite vast. Link supposed it was silly.

Recalling the war, though, he still thought this would bog the issue down too much. But he supposed that depended on how many people were on this committee and what their backgrounds were.

Still… “You couldn’t have just… written to them about it? So you could do other things and they could start handling the matter?”

Zelda watched him, and he immediately knew why she wouldn’t. She didn’t trust them enough.

Hylia, she made her life difficult. But honestly, given that her messages had been mishandled or not even sent sometimes during the war due to the nobles’ meddling, he understood why.

“What can I do?” he asked.

Zelda looked down at the scroll she’d been writing. Then she shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Link’s eyes bore into her. “Zelda.”

The queen sighed. Link rarely used her name, so she knew he wasn’t going to back down. She had a hard time relinquishing control, but he forgave her of it in the moment, given what he’d seen her have to deal handle on a regular basis.

“There are certain… things that I need to read and sign,” she finally acquiesced. “I’ve read through most of them, but you can give them a second glance. Before I give them the seal of approval.”

That’s technically the Lord Chancellor’s job, but he’s from House Serenne. Zelda likely read each decree multiple times to make sure they weren’t altered prior to the chancellor placing the royal seal on them. Link nodded. “Of course. How long will the meeting be? Will you eat dinner?”

“Will you?” Zelda threw back, catching Link off guard.

He blinked, stammering, “Uh, I—what?”

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” Zelda noted. “At all. We were together all day working through things.”

“I wasn’t with you all day,” Link argued, huffing a little.

“I ate twice in front of you,” Zelda noted pointedly.

Link felt strange. Zelda never cared if he ate. This was weird. Feeling exposed, he tried to argue and then paused.

Wait, had he eaten yesterday?

…Whoops. Lady Impa would’ve lectured him. But she wasn’t here anymore – he’d sent her back to Kakariko for her own sake.

Sighing, he conceded. “Fine. We both eat at sundown. Here.”

“My room,” she countered.

Link grew even more baffled. “Your room?”

“I still have to finish this decree, and the chair at my desk in my room is more comfortable than any of these,” she explained.

Link shrugged. “Very well.”

XXX

Dinner was a strange affair. Link wasn’t sure he’d ever actually had a private dinner with Zelda – it had always been at ceremonies, parties, events, anything that included others watching them or talking to them. Even when they’d had quieter moments shared with food, it was never an actual meal – Link would ensure Zelda ate while he did something else, or he’d go away to eat his food with his daughter. During the war Zelda’s private meals were the only time she had peace, so he always respected that and left her alone.

So it was really awkward as the two ate quietly. At least until Zelda plopped another scroll between them on the bed.

“I thought we went through all of them?” Link asked, wondering if she just didn’t believe him.

“This is from the council meeting,” she sighed.

Link stared at her, baffled. “There’s paperwork from the meeting?”

“Yes.”

He wasn’t sure if he truly was this astonished or if his lack of eating was getting to him, but he was far blunter than usual. Or perhaps it was simply because he knew they still had to continue working on the decree she’d been writing before ever attending that meeting. “How do you live like this?”

“It’s the worst part of it,” Zelda grumbled. “But if it isn’t in writing, they’ll change the facts. I have to have documentation of everything.”

“Wait, we need to document this too, then,” Link suddenly said, grabbing spare parchment, reading the words as he wrote them, “On the eve of the fifteenth day of the eleventh month of the Twentieth Year of Farore, Queen Zelda ate roasted duck while complaining of the bitterness of paperwork—”

Link’s proclamation was interrupted as Zelda waved a hand in his face, giggling while saying, “Oh, stop it, not everything has to be documented.”

Link glanced at her diary on her desk, raising an eyebrow and looking at her. “You document everything in there.”

Zelda’s smile faded a little, eyes narrowing a small amount in suspicion. “You’ve read my diary?”

“No,” Link answered honestly. “I just see how often you write in it. And how much each time. You must have hundreds at this point. Where do you store them?”

“I don’t keep them when I finish one,” she replied. “I burn them.”

Link rolled the parchment up, sighed, unrolled it, and wrote, “It must also be declared that the queen’s trust issues are actually concerning.”

“You’re being absurd,” Zelda huffed, snatching the parchment out of his hands as he smirked. Then she unrolled the parchment from the meeting, and he resigned himself to his fate, eating his dinner as he listened.

XXX

Link groaned as his head almost slipped out of his hand, body exhausted, eyes barely able to stay open. He was sprawled across the bed, scrolls everywhere as he helped Zelda review a decree she wanted to make, the very monstrosity she’d been working on and dying over when he’d run into her that evening. It was a bizarre, even absurd decree, but necessary according to her – a law against the hiring of healers within the public bathhouses, as owners of bathhouses tried to monopolize the local area of many different markets.

Bathhouses were places of cleansing and healing, so it made sense for bathhouse owners to hire healers, but many claimed they were scamming people. Zelda, eager to protect her citizens, wanted to prevent that from happening. There were arguments on either side – many spoke that the ire of rich bathhouse owners could cause some issue for the queen, while others petitioned she defend the poor. Obviously, both monarchs knew the right choice, but it was still irritating and tedious, and Zelda was trying to make the decree still allow the bathhouses some rights while allowing healers to practice within their own business as well.

From one perspective it was ensuring everything was done fairly. From another perspective it could be meddling and micromanaging when there were more important things to handle.

To Link, it was just far too many words, too much analyzing for potential loopholes, and too many hours listening to Zelda rant about what if House Mabe takes issue since one of their members owns a bathhouse in Castle Town or how could they just charge that amount of rupees for patrons to utilize healers in the bathhouse.

He agreed with her sentiments, of course, but… a part of him also wanted to point out that if people just stopped and actually examined the issue they’d recognize they’re getting charged too much and simply go to a house of healing. But everyone needed a bath, so of course they would just pay the extra rupees if it meant they could consolidate. To them it would seem like a bargain.

It was strange and frustrating, the lengths people would go for convenience over basic logic. And this night was a wonderful reminder of why he never wanted to run anything. They’d spent hours on this decree, after already spending so much time reviewing all the others that had already been written.

Link had lost track of the time, but he knew it was entirely too late when Zelda sighed and flopped onto the pillows.

“Lady Impa would be able to help,” she lamented.

Link bit his lip and his annoyance, trying and failing to read through the passage he’d stared at for what felt like the last hour.

“Why isn’t Lady Impa married?” Zelda suddenly asked.

Link blinked. Blinked again. Then he looked back at her. “What?”

The queen was on her side, one hand propping up her head while her other rested over her ever growing abdomen. She looked genuinely confused… and exhausted.

It was too late for both of them.

“She’d make a great mother,” Zelda continued earnestly. “I don’t understand why she isn’t married and having children of her own.”

“She does have children,” Link huffed ruefully, looking back at the scroll.

“But we’re terrible children,” Zelda noted with a sigh, shuffling closer. Link felt the bed shift, and then he felt her press into his side as she peered over his shoulder to look at the scroll. “Do you think it’ll go over well?”

“It seems reasonable,” he answered honestly. “I haven’t found much they could try to manipulate from it.”

From my own pitiful understanding of the law, at least.

The queen was silent, nodding as she examined the scroll, eyes discerning and brow furrowed. And then she relaxed.

“Lady Impa should get married,” Zelda insisted randomly, yawning and shifting back to give Link some space.

Link finally had to laugh. “You need to sleep.”

“Why isn’t she married?”

“Why does she need to get married?”

“Doesn’t she need to further her line?” Zelda questioned. “I truly do want to know, I’m worried. What if her rule is contested? We sent her back to Kakariko so she could maintain her status as chief and just do her duties for her tribe and not worry about us, but… do you think she’ll get married while she’s away?”

“Lady Impa took a vow of chastity, dedicating her life to serving the blood of Hylia,” Link explained. “She took that vow years ago, before she was ever chief. I… I don’t think she expected to become chief as early as she did.”

He hadn’t really thought about it until he’d just said it, but he supposed that was likely the case. Lady Impa had been a fairly young chief. Not the youngest by far, but still.

“How old was she when she became chief?” Zelda asked.

“I…” Link tried to think about it, and realized he actually didn’t know. He had a rough estimate, but that was about it. “I don’t know.”

Guilt kneaded his gut a little. He didn’t know much about Lady Impa at all, he realized. And considering how much she did for him, it seemed downright rude and selfish on his part.

Zelda sat up a little, expression growing more anxious. “How will she have heirs if she can’t have children? Won’t her succession be contested?”

Link snapped himself out of his little brooding, glancing at the scroll before sighing and looking back at her. “Chiefdoms aren’t always hereditary. Lady Impa’s family hasn’t ruled the Sheikah tribe forever. The Council of Elders can unseat a chief if they think he or she is unworthy.”

Zelda looked utterly bewildered at that. “What makes someone unworthy to the council?”

Link thought about it and then shrugged. “Whatever… they think is unworthy.”

Zelda chewed her cheek, seemingly amused and exasperated. He could tell she was debating whether having him help her over the decree was even a good idea. He felt a little insulted by it, but he also knew he really wasn’t the best person for this. He wasn’t trained for politics, he was just a soldier.

But he wasn’t a fool, either. He just felt like one trying to explain Sheikah politics.

He was tired.  He could barely keep his eyes open at this point, but Zelda, despite her own clear exhaustion, still seemed pensive.

“I suppose I know very little about your people,” Zelda finally admitted, looking away. “Growing up, all I ever learned about the Sheikah was that they serve my family faithfully and are servants to the goddess.”

The pair was silent for a strange moment. Link wasn’t sure what to say, really – if he commented that she was right in her ignorance, she’d probably get defensive. His old habit was to reassure – if this were the war he’d tell her she couldn’t help the upbringing she had, and that he’d teach her what she needed to know. But he was too tired for such sentiments, to be honest.

He was so sick of being tired.

Sighing, Link shifted so he was sitting on his knees, yawning and gathering the scrolls to try and organize the pile.

“Do you think Lady Impa is okay?” Zelda finally asked quietly.

Link paused in his work, and for the first time all night, he felt certain about this. “Yes. She’s away from me.”

The queen didn’t speak, and Link didn’t move. But the moment passed, and he finished gathering everything, moving to slide off the bed, when the queen reached out to him, holding his wrist. He glanced up at her and saw an expression he couldn’t quite read. Although the two had been working together a great deal more than they used to, maybe even more than they’d ever been able to in the war, all the things they’d done to each other, the emotions for and against each other, tended to halt anything too vulnerable. But in this moment, the queen had a strange look on her face, some mixture of concerned and analytical, hard and soft as her eyes bored into his.

“Your Majesty…?” he questioned, pulling from her a little.

Zelda sighed a little, about to speak, when she gave a little wince. Link moved towards her, a silent question of what was wrong, and she waved him off.

“Just the baby kicking,” she huffed mildly. “Maybe we should just go to sleep.”

Link glanced down at her abdomen, and he had to admit he felt… very curious. He hadn’t been around Zelda enough during her pregnancy with Sonia to really explore anything about his child before she’d been born. He had that opportunity now, but he hardly felt like Zelda would want him that close to her.

It wasn’t as if they didn’t know every inch of each other, hadn’t been in each other’s personal space in so many ways, but he still didn’t try to get too personal with her without asking. Except perhaps when she was faltering and in need of him stepping up. But this wasn’t the case here, it was just…

He wanted to get to know his baby.

Link reached a hand out hesitantly, pausing just short of touching her. He looked up at her questioningly, waiting for permission.

“Do you want to feel?” Zelda asked slowly, trying to parse out his expression.

Link swallowed, nodding slightly.

The queen’s expression softened, and she smiled a little, grabbing his hand gently and guiding it to her belly. Link rested his palm across it, and it didn’t take long for him to feel little movements before something pressed against him.

His heart skipped a beat, and he gasped a little, smile pulling at his lips as he looked excitedly up at his wife. Zelda smiled in return.

Link wanted to lean in and kiss right where he felt a little foot against his, but he didn’t want to bother the queen that much. Instead, he whispered softly in Sheikah before pulling away.

“What did you say?” Zelda asked as Link finally got off the bed.

“I said hello. And I told the little one to let you sleep,” he answered quietly, putting the scrolls on her desk. “When and where shall I meet you tomorrow? You’re foregoing the council meeting for this decree, am I right?”

“I am,” the queen replied, moving the covers so she could get under them. “Why… why don’t you just…”

Link watched her a moment, wondering why she was suddenly stuttering in her words.

“You could, you know,” Zelda tried again, swallowing, glancing at the pillow beside her. “You could just stay…”

Link waited for her to finish her sentence, but the queen sighed.

“How about noon?” she finally suggested.

Suggested. She didn’t suggest things to him, she ordered them. She was tired.

“I can find you at noon,” Link agreed, nodding. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

The queen gave a little nod, and Link turned away. She sighed, rubbing her belly again as the door closed, and stared at the empty space beside her in the bed.

His head still feels odd, now that he thinks about it. Which isn’t too bad, as far as coming back from the deceased could be. At least this time he awoke on his back under a supernatural haze with the faces of his team of idiots staring down at him, rather than inside a box, buried under six feet of dirt. He got to sit up and complain and didn’t even have to grovel at the feet of…well. It was better, this time.

He trails his oddly silent leader up the stairs. Her face was horribly blank last he looked. Not even in her usual way, when she’s thinking or bored or plotting a murder. There was a tightness about her eyes, and there’s a slow stiffness to her limbs as she climbs. But her pulse remains normal, so she can’t be too out of sorts.

He wonders if he’ll be able to guilt her into something for him.

Then they reach the room—how very kind of the cleric to give him some privacy to get himself cleaned up (again). His dreadful, devoted dunce goes in first, leaving him to close the door behind himself.

She takes a few steps into the room. Stops. Stands there, with her back to him.

He regards her for a moment. Then crosses his arms, sighs, and says, “So, what have we learned?”

He only intends to bully her a bit. That beast of an orc killed him and he’s entitled to some retribution.

But she doesn’t answer. Her breathing stutters, as if she’s been kicked in the gut, a sort of ga-ga-gasp. She follows that with the tiniest sound. And promptly turns to face the closest wall, all but shoves her face against it, and chokes.

It’s not a loud sound. It’s actually very short. He might not have paid any attention to it were she not shoved against the wall like an imbecile.

“Dearest,” he drawls. It’s no fun if she doesn’t engage.

Her shoulders hunch in. As if she’s…making herself smaller. Which, given that she’s not a small woman, should be funny.

Except…except there’s something wrong about it. A wounded animal movement that draws his attention like, well. Like a vampire to an easy meal.

It nearly reminds him of how he’d try to curl in, chained on the floor of the kennels, because a dead part of him remembered the urge to shield his vulnerable middle.

“Darling?” he tries. He starts to reach for her when a new tremor shudders along the lines of her shoulders. She pants. Hiccups. Gasps again and goes quiet. She’s trying to hold her breath, but her lungs keep hitching. And she’s got her hands cupped around the sides of her face so he can’t see her expression at all.

But the tendons in her neck stand out as if she were lifting something heavy. Or if she were…screaming. Silently.

Because making noise attracts nasty things. She knows this. He knows this.

“Lover?” That one should get a reaction out of her. If only embarrassed hand flaps and a blush. But it doesn’t.

She tries to breathe a few times, stuttering both in and out. Manages a rough, “’Mfine.”

She. Isn’t fine. Is she. She’s not fine at all.

“Are, were you injured?” he says. He smells no blood. She didn’t have a limp and the cleric said nothing, but he was dead. Who knows what happened after that foul beast murdered him.

His leader makes another sound. It’s awful. Like it tears out of her, spilling through clenched teeth, high and tight and hurting.

Oh. Oh yes, he knows what this is. Has witnessed it in his siblings. Has done it.

It makes him…feel. It shouldn’t make him feel. But it does. His plan, his successful seduction, the way his chest tightens when he looks at her. If he doesn’t acknowledge that, then it can’t exist. Can’t be real.

There’s no reason (he will name) for her pain to affect him. He ought to wish her well and grab a set of clothing and head off to the bath to clean himself up. A month ago, he would have.

A month ago, he was barely away from that bastard, hadn’t tasted the blood of a thinking creature (hers, given freely, so practically). Hadn’t saved her or, fine, been (disgustingly) saved by her. Hadn’t seen her chew through the throat of a gur hunter who had all but captured him. Hadn’t watched her turn down a burgeoning god of seduction (melting the thing in the process). Hadn’t found her in the stumbling dark of a magical blindness and trekked halfway through the Underdark with her stories filling the horrid silence around them.

He hadn’t kissed her (and rather liked it). Hadn’t held her (soft and warm and too afraid to touch him back). Hadn’t sat next to her, fully clothed in the first bed they’d found since the ship crashed, and done nothing but read a book to her. About a plague.

He does not leave her to her own misery. He doesn’t even laugh at her. He just…stands there. His skin itches on the inside. His muscles twitch with some nameless need to do something. He’s not even sure what. He looks to the door. Tries to will himself to take a step. Just one.

But his treacherous feet stay bolted to the floor (like a command, like an order and that is why he can’t do this, can’t be this, can’t feel this).

She gasps again. The tiniest scrap of a sob on her voice as she thumps her head against the wall.

Shit. Shit bloody hells.

“Eleanor?” he says so softly he’s sure her mortal ears won’t catch it. But he mistimes it—of course he does—and it lands right in the middle of her holding her breath again.

She flinches as if he struck her. And he can’t let himself examine the feelings that thought dredges out of the muck of his soul.

“Darling,” (yes, much safer), “perhaps you’d be more comfortable moving away from there, hmm? Since we do have a bed?”

She doesn’t answer. Unless one counts “a barely controlled collapse to one’s knees while hiding one’s face” as an answer.

His palms tingle. He has that thought again, of doing something. That isn’t stealing her pack while she’s distracted. He doesn’t like her like this. She should be, well, she’s usually quiet. But in a judgmental kind of way. A silent watchfulness. The furrow between her brow and the slight arch when someone is being an idiot and she’s trying not to say so.

Not…this.

Damn all the hells. He has no idea what to do. His body—usually so lithe and maneuverable—encases him in dead muscle and rotting bones. It’s an awkward thing, suddenly. Unwieldy.

He thinks of kneeling beside her and patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there.” As they do in mummeries or copper novels.

He searches his tattered memories for something better. Finds nothing suitable. Ends up kneeling beside her and patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there?”

She does not lift her face, wet with the pretty kind of tears maidens in mummeries do. She does not throw herself upon him to weep delicately over his bloodied armor (it’s coagulating and starting to dry off into large, disgusting flakes).

What she does do is make a sort of bleating sound. A laugh, he realizes after a moment.

And then. She lifts her face, finally. Turns to him.

No, she’s decidedly not a pretty crier. Her face is swollen and mottled, her wet eyes bloodshot. She swipes at the spit on her lips and gives a broken, painful looking smile.

Says, “I know, right?”

Which, what in the hells is he supposed to do with that? So he does nothing (looks again to the closed door). But she catches it, this time. Her face crumples even as she nods.

“You go on,” she says, voice thick and lungs still stuttering. “Probably needs to be warmed up, but I gave all my money to the Walking Dead.”

It takes several moments for that to mean anything. Withers.

He doesn’t quite remember being dead? Not in any detail. Remembers only dark and silence. And an ancient voice thrumming through him, “By doom and dusk, I strike thy name from the archives. Rise.”

Then breathing. Clawing. His body jerking to (un)life for the second time and the churning, screaming panic as he searched for those polished, leather boots, for the awful, crushing vice on his mind of the master.

The cleric had mentioned his leader had given the desiccated corpse all her gold to revive him. As she should, seeing as it was her foolish decision that got him killed.

They’d gotten that gold from the tollhouse, after the wizard exploded that awful creature. She had a ring, near the beginning of their little fiasco. A child’s toy, with a child’s cantrip on it. She’d said it was the first jewelry she’d ever owned. In her entire life. And she gave it up to the wizard’s consuming orb.

She has nothing but the clothes on her back and some potions, doesn’t she? She gives away everything else. Sometimes to vagabond children, but the rest of the time…

“Go ahead,” she says. Turns her face away and scrubs at it with her sleeves. “I’m good. I’ll get my shit together while you get cleaned up.”

Dismissing him. He’s free to march over to that door and not come back until she re-secures her own mask.

She would know better than anyone her own state. Her capabilities. And there’s no reason for him to stay (there isn’t, and that traitorous voice inside him will kindly shut up if it knows what’s good for it).

But.

But…

Damn it all. She’s not good. He knows she hides her emotions. He even knows why. It’s a perfectly sensible reaction, amongst people who would take advantage of such a weakness.

Yet the thought of him being someone she needs to hide that from (no). It, it prickles (no). He doesn’t care for the notion (he mustn’t dare, it’s not real, it’s not).

That bastard is leagues and leagues away. Astarion has an illithid tadpole nibbling at his brain, but it also keeps that brain free of any crushing orders. He can make his own decisions. He can choose to stay here, if that’s what he wants to do. No one can stop him.

“Please go,” she says. Gods, she sounds hollow. Pained. “I got you killed. You don't gotta s-stay here.” The stutter worsens. “D-don’t gotta coddle my st-tupid ass. You fucking d-died.”

“Yes, I did. And I’d rather not go through that a third time, if you please.”

He means it to be a joke. He can make her laugh sometimes (what a marvel).

This time he misses entirely. She crumples again. Sinks down to her knees, shoulder against the wall, and tucks her chin in. She so badly tries to hide her face from him. “I’m so, so s-sorry.”

He…

Astarion has been hurt by others. All the time, really. Almost everyone, the rest of them being dupes or fools. He’s laid on his narrow bunk in the dormitory, or curled on his side, naked in the kennels, and dreamed of hurting people back. Grabbing them by the throat as their eyes bulged. Ripping their throat out with his teeth, their hot blood a phantom dream, as they gurgled and begged for mercy which he would deny them.

But she. Eleanor. She apologizes to him. Not even this time, but others. Even when he (fine) might have technically been the one at fault. She just hands them out like sweets at a festival. Like it costs her nothing.

Like he deserves them.

It upsets her when he’s hurt. Not because it denies her anything, but because…because…

She cares. For him.

She truly cares for him, doesn’t she? More than a target of lust, more than a convenient dagger or a set of lock-picking tools or even a good fuck.

She asks him to read to her, by the hells. She laughs at even his bad jokes. She listens to him. Values his opinion. Gives him her blood while refusing sex (until recently) (and even then, she didn’t even find him attractive until she said she knew him) (he can’t let his mind go there).

She’s upset like this at herself. Because she got him hurt.

She’s this distressed for him.

“I…I don’t know how to be here,” she says. Wipes furiously at her eyes and he knows that will only make it worse. “Everything’s so…so fucked. I don’t know what to do.”

She hurts for him. Hurts so badly she can’t even breathe right. She gave all her money for him (which, yes, is only fair, but still). She’s cracked apart like this and trying to hide it for his sake. To spare him.

How does she exist?

(why couldn’t this have happened centuries ago)

“To be quite honest,” he says, his mouth moving of its own accord because he certainly didn’t plan this, even now panics as he sucks in another breath to continue. “Neither do I.”

She sniffles. Poor thing desperately needs a handkerchief. But a quick glance around the room reveals nothing of the sort. And he suspects whoever is left to maintain this place will be cross should he take a knife to the bedding to fashion one.

“Are you okay?” his darling leader says. On her knees on the floor, blood vessels burst in her eyes from holding in her own agony, and she still seeks his well-being.

It warms him even as he fights himself not to recoil.

“Aside from being covered in my own blood and rather hungry,” he says. Means it, again, to be light-hearted. But her gaze sharpens.

“You need blood?” she says. Looks to her snotty sleeve. To the arm beneath, with the faint marks of his teeth still lingering on her wrist.

She's going to give up her blood. Even after all this. Her first thought, what she seizes upon is something to help him.

Gods, his plan has worked spectacularly.

Gods, he feels ill.

Yet blood is blood, and his gaze locks on the proffered arm. On the blood he knows pulses beneath that warm skin of hers. His mouth waters as his fangs ache.

“If you’re offering?” he says. Because he can’t help himself. Can do nothing about the hunger clawing apart his insides even as he wants to vomit.

She sniffs again. “Only seems fair. Since…”

She seems to want to finish that sentence. But it gets caught up. Starts the tears again and she seems so determined to avoid that. She instead clears her throat and attempts a smile. “Wanna let me clean off my face? And you can take a bath?”

To dine like civilized people.

(Take advantage.)

“If that’s what you prefer,” he says.

(Another target.)

She nods. Searches around, he suspects, for something like a handkerchief.

(Another victim.)

“I can forgo warming the bath water, if you can,” he says. “Spare the coin and all.” Only her shoulders slump in some fresh misery.

(Naive.)

“Maybe they’ll take an I owe you,” she says. Reaches for her bag. “Maybe I can pawn off something. There’s that merchant lady out front somewhere.”

(Foolish.)

She barely owns anything at all. Yet she’ll give up more? For him?

(Idiot.)

(Soft-hearted.)

(Gullible.)

(wonderful)